


Back In The Saddle

by J_Baillier



Series: On Pins And Needles [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Guillain-Barré syndrome, Harwich Manor, Horseback Riding, Horses, M/M, Major Illness, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 05:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: Sherlock would probably never have anticipated making new friends in the course of his recovery from the Guillain-Barré syndrome that landed him in intensive care for months. One of those friends was literally a dark horse.





	Back In The Saddle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/gifts).



> We are releasing this oneshot in celebration of the series being featured in the [July 2018 episode of Three Patch Podcast](http://three-patch.com/2018/07/01/episode-81-2/). Thank you, you lovely people!
> 
> Timeline: the scenes in this take place during Sherlock's stay at Harwich Manor, an exclusive rehab facility at which Mycroft managed to arrange a place for him despite the long queue. While providing exactly what Sherlock needed in terms of physical recovery, Harwich meant a lengthy separation from John at a very precarious stage in their fledgling romantic relationship. The start of that romance is detailed in the first story of the series, [The Breaking Wheel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724449?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_170748242), and its sequel _[On the Rack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589025?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_170588327)_ covers his convalescence beyond hospitalisation.

 

' _Group therapy – West wing drawing room – 20 minutes'_ , chimes the calendar app on the tablet perched on a charger stand next to the television. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and drops down from sitting on the edge of the bed onto his back, legs dangling from the edge of the double bed.

So far, he's been good at tuning out whatever the others are talking about during those daily mandatory group sessions, drifting away into his Mind Palace. He doesn't want to hear an accountant complaining about the difficulties his multiple sclerosis has caused for his sex life with his wife, doesn't want to hear a former PE teacher lamenting the fact that it'll take a while before she can help her husband with the school runs because she's terribly afraid to drive after the accident that cost her a leg. They all talk about their spouses, their girlfriends, boyfriends, fiancés and that is worse than listening to them feeling sorry for themselves over whatever accident or illness has struck them down.

They all have relationships, when Sherlock hasn't even had a chance to start working on his own properly. Being with John – keeping John – would be a formidable challenge even if he were on top of his game, and now...

Tonight, after a physical therapy that isn't progressing half as quickly as he'd like, and a message from John saying that he isn't going to visit tomorrow because he'd caught some bug of other from the clinic he locums at and doesn't want Sherlock to catch it _in his condition_ , he knows his nerves are too shot to refrain from lashing out at the idiots in his talk therapy group. When his defences are this brittle, he knows he has a tendency to use the deductions he can’t help making as a shield against the rest of the world.

This is what he has become – someone who could be completely toppled by the flu.

The upside of the PT sessions is that they offer a physical outlet for his restlessness, his frustrations and the sense that this place gives him of being imprisoned. John's message had negated that effect today. His visits are problematic in many ways, but at least they give Sherlock some reassurance that he's still there, that they're still trying. That he's up to date on what's going on with John instead of being completely side-lined.

He can't face group therapy today. Possibly not tomorrow, either, but thinking even two hours ahead robs him completely of any motivation to do anything. They'll come knocking if he's not in the West drawing room in twenty minutes. He needs to get out of here if he is to avoid being chased up and coaxed into attending. Were he at home, in his old state, this level of antsiness would drive him to put on his coat and to walk the streets of London until he calmed down. Walking it out on the Harwich grounds isn't an option since he can barely make it to the dining hall without getting winded.

He clambers up from the bed, and without bothering to change out of the black tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt he'd worn to the gym, he pulls on a sweatshirt – no buttons – and dons a windbreaker – large snap fasteners. Every damned thing in this room reminds him of what he's lost, including the easy-to-put-on wardrobe Mycroft has provided. It reminds him of other times when his own wardrobe hasn't been available. None of those memories are bearable right now.

He goes to the concierge desk in the foyer of the main building and requests a transport, meaning one the manor's golf carts used to haul patients around the premises for their various therapy appointments and recreational activities. There's even a nine-hole golf course here.

He has only minutes to decide where it is that he wants to be taken. Most things available at this hour either involve food – no appetite, other people, or require a pre-booked appointment.

Only one idea occurs, based on the tour he and John and Mycroft had been given on his arrival day.

Knowing that whatever he puts down will be used by one of the staff to find him when he doesn’t show up at Group Therapy, Sherlock asks for the golf clubhouse.

Once they are underway, he tells the driver to drop him off at the turning just before the course, saying he wants to walk the rest of the way. Of course, he’s not actually able to make that journey given his level of decrepitude, but the driver isn’t to know that.

Once the cart is out of view, he takes the much shorter path to the manor stables. Assuming the doors are open, he hopes to be able to have a quiet look inside without being bothered – the staff will likely be attending to patients with riding appointments. During his boarding school years, the stables had been his sanctuary and under the coaching of Eton's outstanding equestrian professionals, he’d become quite a proficient rider. They tried to recruit him into the horse polo team, which he sternly declined. The dressage lessons and the show jumping offered to the college's eventing team and open to other students as well were more his thing – individual sports as those things were.

His guess had been right – the courtyard is empty and the stable side door left open, presumably to let in some fresh air. It's not a cold day, but he's glad he'd worn the windbreaker.

Inside, the lighting is dim. He takes a moment to inhale an aroma he’s not smelled in years: hay and straw, manure and urine, plus the unmistakable scent of warm horse. The sounds are evocative, too: the tap of a hoof, the swish of a tail. Out of the ten stalls, only three are occupied – the other animals are likely outside in pens or perhaps being ridden. He’d walked past enclosures with horses turned out to forage for whatever grass they could find in winter paddocks.

In the first stall he passes, Sherlock recognises a Norwegian fjord horse from its heavy mane sticking up in a manner befitting a punk rocker, with a thin stripe of black in the middle of the hairs. He knows the breed is famous for being very suited for equine therapy. The horse appears to be old as far as he can tell, and it doesn't pay him much mind as he walks past, save for a turn of its head when he's right in front of it – horses' visual fields do not extend to what's straight in front of them.

The second horse looks mostly like an Irish cob; its tell-tale piebald colouring resembles that of a cow, and it has handsome feathering on his hooves. It's sleeping; joints locked, horses can do it standing. It eyes are closed, lower lip drooping.

The third horse, in a large corner stall, steps to the stall door which is merely roped off instead of barred, allowing the animal to reach his head out for visitors. It's a mare, a large charcoal black one, and she seems to regard Sherlock with mild curiosity. She has tightly packed, well-defined musculature combined with the elegant, lithe silhouette that points to a warmblood. Her mane hasn't been clipped evenly, but has been left wild and unruly; not a horse to be shown at competitions.

Sherlock offers his hand, which she appraises first with a sniff and then with a nudge of her lips; she's after treats. Having none to offer and suspecting visitors would not be encouraged to feed the stable's inhabitants, he slides his hand onto the crested, well-set neck. He moves to the left side of the mare's neck which she has reached outside of the stall, then he hooks his fingers to scratch gently where the mane adjoins the skin; his hands are still infuriatingly weak and uncoordinated.

The horse's ears, previously oriented slightly to the sides, now shift; one points perkily and forwards while the one closest to Sherlock is honed in on him. She’s clearly interested in what’s going on with him, but unlike the humans in this place her attention isn't intrusive; she can't ask questions that make him uncomfortable, demand him to verbalise his emotions or _engage with others_.

A fly lands on the mare's back and her skin ripples, sending a shudder down her hindquarters. It doesn't evict the insect, and there's an angry swish of tail and another ripple.

"I know how you feel," Sherlock mutters and gives her a firm pat on the neck. He lives in a constant state of irritation thanks to everything from creases in clothes to nothing at all causing his recovering nerves to misfire and destroy any chance of concentrating on anything. He's always had sensory issues, and now after the GBS they have been elevated into torture.

"You've got good taste," a woman's voice suddenly says from somewhere close to the entrance.

Sherlock flinches, startled, stepping away from the black mare.

"That's Hestia, one of our finest." Now that the sunlight streaming in the large window by the entrance isn't concealing her features in shadows, Sherlock can see that the woman who has entered is approximately forty years of age, and an ashen blonde – original hair colour, not from a bottle. She's wearing jodhpur shoes and what appear to be elastic jeans, with a polo neck adorned with the Harwich logo. "Jane Ledford," she announces and offers her hand for shaking.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I heard someone in here and came to have a look since our appointment book was empty for the afternoon."

"Sorry to intrude," Sherlock offers politely, and clasps his wrist with his other hand behind his back. He realises he needs to ask her to summon him a transport; he doesn't want to talk to anyone, and most likely this woman will tell him to come back when he has booked a ride and all the proper paperwork has been delivered. _Rehabilitation plan. Case summary._

Instead of solving cases, he's become one. Something to be fixed and sent on his merry way, rehabilitated and improved. But not the same. Perhaps not ever the same as before.

"No trouble at all." Jane has a well-used smile, judging by the dimples and deep and plentiful laugh lines that appear on her features even with just a polite upturn of her lips.

The black mare withdraws into her stall, lifts up a leg and makes a carving motion on the straw-covered concrete floor.

"She's been cooped up in here all day. Would you like to go out with her?"

Sherlock reflexively takes a step away from the stall. "I don't have an appointment."

Jane shrugs. "As I said, our book's empty. She could use some fresh air; I was going to put her in the back paddock but I'm sure she'd be delighted to have a bit of work instead."

"Wouldn't you need my case notes?"

Jane opens the latch in the stall door and nods towards the mare which walks up to give her shoulder a shove with her  muzzle. "Hestia won't have any use for them, and I'm sure you can fill me in on what you think I need to know. Any limitations on what physical activities are recommended? You're not here because of an injury that could be a contraindication for riding, are you?"

"No. There shouldn't be any limitations." Apart from the fact that he can't manage nearly _anything_ on his own these days, of course. He remembers well the discharge summary his neurologist at the National had written; it has announced that all manner of physical rehabilitation was possible as long as it happened with respect to the fact that his balance will need a lot of work and that he fatigues easily.

"We'll just have a nice stroll around the garden labyrinth, then," Jane suggests, "Get you back in the saddle – I assume you're not new to this. People who don't ride only come when they've been booked in; something must have drawn you here."

Sherlock scrutinises the horse again. She looks very similar to one of the better-trained horses Eton kept for those students who didn't have their own. He'd been called Reigate Coronet, and he'd been Sherlock's favourite. "Holsteiner?" That's what Coronet’s breed had been.

"Trakehner, actually. Neck's not as high-set as a Holsteiner's, but that was a good guess."

Sherlock replies with an appreciative hum. Several famous show jumping horses have been Trakehners, and the breed is sometimes used as a 'refiner' of other warmblood breeds through infusing them with a bit of Thoroughbred and Arabian blood without narrowing the gene pool. He has never ridden one.

"There are rubber riding boots and helmets in the side room next to the shower stall," Jane prompts, grabbing a brush from a basket hanging from the stall door. "There's lots of sizes."

It seems that Sherlock's mind has been made up for him.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


Jane insists that they do the tacking together, even though Sherlock points out – embarrassed – that he won't be able to take on much of it.

Jane is unfazed by the news. "You'll do as much as you can, and Hestia will appreciate the effort." She disappears into the tack room for a moment. When she returns, dark, tolerant eyes of the black mare watch the proceedings as a saddle that looks mostly like a thick quilt with stirrups is lifted onto her back. Jane does the lifting, with Sherlock holding merely holding on to the edges and feeling ridiculous about the whole thing.

She then passes him the bridle. Lifting and holding an arm up for any length of time is exhausting, and it takes Sherlock several tries to slip the bit into the horse's mouth and get the opposite end of the bridle over her ears. Jane arranges her mane so that not too much hair is trapped underneath the leather straps.

"That's not a saddle type I remember using," Sherlock points out. For dressage, one uses a saddle with lower padding than a show jumping saddle, since it offers more intense contact between the rider's calves and the horse's flank. This saddle looks nothing but a saddle blanket with stirrups.

"This'll let you get close to her. No need for lots of padding since we'll only be walking and doing a bit of stretching. If you need more support for balance, you can grab on to her mane. She won't mind. Not a lot of things bother her."

"Except for flies."

Jane laughs. "Except for flies."

Hestia is the Ancient Greek god of the hearth, of domesticity, of family and home. Why a horse would get called that, Sherlock doesn't know, but she certainly looks like the most familiar and non-intimidating thing at Harwich so far.

Jane clips a lead rope to the left ring of the bit. Sherlock assumes it's for walking the horse outside, but once they're standing on the courtyard, it doesn't get removed.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. He will _not_ be walked around in a circle like a child at a village fete. "You're not going to use that to guide her when I am on, are you?"

Jane notices him struggling with the clip on his helmet straps, and unceremoniously clips it on for him. She isn't making a fuss about anything he needs help with – she acts as though it's all perfectly normal, and Sherlock can't decide if it feels condescending or if it's a relief not having to _talk_ about his infirmities all the time like he's forced to do at the physical therapy sessions and everywhere else.

"We'll get rid of the rope as soon as _you_ feel perfectly confident to handle her in all gaits."

That shuts him up. He's quite unsure whether he could even manage to post for any length of time. His thigh muscles are still ridiculously weak.

Jane points at a stepladder. "Would that work?"

Now that they're out of the stable, Sherlock can properly appreciate Hestia's height. She must be at sixteen hands. "I don't know," he admits. Stairs are still difficult and having to manage temporarily on one foot on a stepladder while swinging his other leg over the width of a horse suddenly feels hazardous.

He should have forced his case notes on this woman. Now, he can either risk a fall or embarrass himself completely by explaining his situation.

Or not. Jane starts turning Hestia around, and walking her towards the back of the building. "You hesitated too long, so we're going for the ramp."

Before Sherlock catches up to her and the horse, they've arrived at said construct. It's a concrete ramp built onto the side of the office wing of the stable. There's a sturdy-looking handrail, and it's high enough that standing on top of it, holding onto yet another support rail, Sherlock has no trouble at all getting into the horse's back.

He sits astride while she tightens the girth strap and adjusts the stirrups to fit his height; this is feeling good and familiar so far. But, his triumph soon turns to alarm, when Jane begins leading Hestia away from the ramp. Back at Eton, he used to receive praise for his natural seat. Now, he feels like he's sitting on a tilting swing without holding on to the ropes. He has leaned forward without realising he's doing so, and now he's at risk of tipping over completely. He barely manages to catch himself by slamming his hands, holding the reins, onto the mane in front of him. Hestia doesn't startle but her steps slow, then stop. He takes the reins up a bit  and rearranges his position.

"Alright?" Jane asks.

"Debatable."

"Just hold on to her whenever you need to. Heels down," she reminds him as though it wasn't the most elementary thing he had learned during his first weeks of riding lessons.

Then again, this doesn't feel like getting back in the saddle. His muscles seem convinced that he's never even sat in one before.

Jane starts leading Hestia towards a hedge where a path seems to start meandering towards the garden labyrinth that had been mentioned. Aware that he's nervous and stiff as a board, Sherlock forces his lower back to relax a bit, allowing him to adjust to the horse's movement. Eventually, some muscle memory kicks in, and his hips begin swaying slightly in harmony with the horse's steps. Keeping his upper body still above his hips and in good posture proves challenging; muscle control is still lacking, as proven daily by the balance board exercises in the physical therapy suite. At least now he doesn't need to engage all of his proprioception, only that of his upper body. He shakes his shoulders to loosen then tension, lets his fists holding the reins rest on the thick, black mane.

Hestia blows out air, shakes her head a bit. Jane starts walking her a bit faster, glancing occasionally at Sherlock but saying nothing.

He's grateful for the silence. Placing a hand on the muscular shoulder in front of his right thigh, he feels the rippling power he's borrowing. Even though his balance isn't what it used to, this is starting to feel quite... normal. It feels like it used to. He's walking, in a manner of speaking.

"Nice to get some fresh air," Jane tells Hestia, whose ears perk and turn to listen to her.

Sherlock silently agrees. Being confined to a single room first at a neurology ward, then the ITU, the an HDU, then another bed ward for months and months had made him practically lust for a bit of outdoors. Now, in these beautiful surroundings, he could finally enjoy some, but it requires a lot of organising and special arrangements and he tires so quickly that it doesn't feel worth the effort to even put on his shoes and a coat.

But this, right now, this he can manage. All the other sports and recreational activities he had been coaxed to try have not interested him in the slightest, are beyond his current fitness level, or he has dismissed them after one try. Assuming all the staff are like Jane in their approach, here he won't be constantly pushed to the limits, reminded of his issues or forced to endure mortifying and painful things that are supposed to help him _progress_. Here, he could call the shots. Just as Jane had said; the lead rope will come off when _he_ feels confident enough.

They walk around half of the impressive labyrinth. There are not many flowers blooming right now in the vines meandering up the hedge walls, but the sight of the lush, green and well-kept structure is still lovely. The sound of a fountain can be heard from somewhere inside.

Sherlock closes his eyes. Instead of the irritating chiming of the tablet calendar, the humming of the air conditioning, the chittering of the halogen lamps in his room, the too intensely human stench of the PT suite and the smell of disinfectant in his en suite, all he hears and smells now is birdsong, the wind and the scent of freshly cut grass. He feels he can _breathe_ , perhaps for the first time after arriving.

He inhales the aroma of horse; the way it's combining with the sweet scent of the grass growing at the edges of the labyrinth brings back pleasant memories.

"You can slip your feet out of the stirrups, let go of the reins if you like," Jane suggests. "You're doing great."

Frowning at the praise which should make him feel more embarrassed than it does, Sherlock reminds himself that the thick mane is right in front of him if he needs to grab something for balance. He places the reins on Hestia's neck, gently kicks off the stirrups, straightens his back that tends to easily curve forward into a hunch if he doesn't pay attention to his posture. He places his slightly sweaty palms on his thighs, and focuses on relaxing his hips, on sinking down into the thin saddle as deep as he can, relying on his upper thigh muscles to keep him in place. A few times he is forced to grab the edge of the saddle or a handful of horse hair when they do a steeper turn, but keeping his balance soon begins to feel easier and easier, even if he keeps his eyes closed.

 _Muscle memory is kicking in_. He hasn't lost all of it. He won't have to re-learn everything he had been able to do before. For the first time at Harwich, he feels like he's not facing a hopelessly huge task in trying to get back to his old life.

"Would you like to book an appointment for tomorrow?" Jane asks after they've made their way back to the stable courtyard.

"Yes, I would," Sherlock hears himself saying.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


In the golf cart, he digs out his mobile from his coat pocket, basing the timing of the call he is about to place on two things: avoiding conversation with his driver, and wanting to get it over with.

He's still mostly using the voice control instead of the keyboard. It's become a habit, and his fingers are still so slow. "Call Antichrist," he commands, prompting a startled glance from the staff member on the front seat.

The call is answered on the second ring. "This is a surprise," he comments because Mycroft Holmes would never refrain from underlining the fact of Sherlock only calling when he wants or needs something.

This is a bit of both. He could have used an online store, but they would not offer the customisation combined with quality and speed of delivery that his brother can. Mycroft knows his current size, his material and texture preferences, and has the connections to make this happen swiftly, opening hours be damned. "Good evening," Sherlock replies.

"I'm certain Doctor Watson will promptly recover from his respiratory infection. He must have extended his apologies already for not visiting tomorrow."

The deduction prompted on by this non-sequitur comes promptly, bringing irritation in its wake. "I'm _not_ calling because I feel devoid of company."

"Of course not," Mycroft confirms somewhat sarcastically. "What can I do for you, then?"

"I will need some additional clothing."

"Oh. Was the selection delivered not comprehensive?" Mycroft sounds highly sceptical at this premise.

Sherlock is certain that it had been one of his minions and not the man himself who had purchased all these easy-to-put-own atrocities. He's not about to offer any praise to a man whose sense of self-worth is already bloated enough. "I require riding boots, a helmet, jodhpurs, a suitable wax jacket and gloves. Nothing fancy, but you know my preferences."

He hasn't asked Mycroft for anything during his convalescence, save for assistance with his clothes on the day when he'd made known to John his intentions regarding their relationship. He hopes that a side effect of asking for these items is that Mycroft stops hovering for a moment, refrains from rendering assistance not asked for and delivering things not requested. Hopes that he won't read too much into this favour regarding Sherlock's state of mind.

"Is this an established part of your Rehabilitation Plan? I wasn't aware it had been revised."

"This is part of _my_ plan." Of course Mycroft would be privy to his Harwich records, whether he wanted such an intrusion or not. To bump him to the top of the list to get a place at Harwich, his brother has probably funded them a new wing or something, and not even NHS privacy clauses have protected Sherlock's records from brotherly concern before. What his Harwich treatment plan contains are suggestions deemed suitable by people who are _not_ him. The swimming had been terrifying in his current state, and nothing else suggested is worth considering.

"I will be by tomorrow to deliver."

Sherlock nearly tells him not to come in person, but he doesn't have a good reason to tell the man not to come. After all, he's the one asking for a favour, and Mycroft tends to join John for Saturday visits, anyway. It's irritating, having to put up with him when he'd prefer just John, but then again having a third person present nowadays makes their interactions easier to manage, because there is no possibility of venturing into more intimate territory. What that says about his state of mind is something Sherlock knows he shouldn't dwell on because it decimates his mood.

He misses John terribly but doesn't quite yet know how to behave in his presence. Is this feeling what people fear when they say they don't want to risk ruining a friendship by seeking a romantic connection? Their relationship has shifted, the old roadmap in his head regarding how to behave now hopelessly outdated. He feels as emotionally uneasy on his feet as he does physically, and he doesn't know how to talk to John about this, not at all. Besides, the last thing he wants is to voice anything that could be construed as doubt at this point when he's here and John miles away where he could distance himself from Sherlock and come to his senses.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, gritting his teeth.

"Whatever you need," Mycroft says, and his reserved tone spares them both from the embarrassment of mistaking this for a significantly sentimental exchange of words.

Mycroft rings off just as they arrived at the front entrance of the manor's main building. Sitting in the cart for even this short a period has made Sherlock's muscles feel stiff, and the walk back to the annex where his room is takes even longer than usual. It's half past eight in the evening, and the sun is setting. Dinner is being served, but his interest in food remains non-existent.

Once in his room, he drops his windbreaker on an armchair, removes his trainers and lies down on top of the marigold yellow bedspread, tugging some of it on top of himself. Sleep claims him moments later, and for the first time since arriving at Harwich, it continues peacefully through the night.  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


Two months later, a staff member holding on to the lead rope clipped to Hestia's bridle for the first month of Sherlock's stable visits is no longer needed. In fact, Jane now accompanies him on horseback herself when they head out.

His bags are packed, waiting in front of his room at the annex. There are only three hours remaining before Mycroft will pick him up. His discharge papers have been delivered to the room which will soon be occupied by someone else who has come here to try to pick up the pieces of their broken life.

In many ways, Sherlock is ambivalent about going home. So much has been put on hold for the duration of his stay here, and there is a definite sense of having been gone for too long from Baker Street. Gone too long from John.

He should be happy to be discharged. He should be looking forward to seeing John. Yet, the reality of this day finally arriving fills him with dread. An awareness of being about to walk into the unknown.

There are no therapy appointments booked for today, nothing for him to do. He knows himself well enough to have anticipated that he would be on hot coals, so he had talked to Jane, made a request that he could spend some time at the stables this morning. Otherwise he'd be sitting in his room, anxiety knotting in his stomach. He will ruin his reunion with John if that anxiety manages to take hold of him too tightly.

Indeed, his only option of getting through today is to calm his nerves in the only manner available in this place that has ever worked.

He still needs the stepladder. Can't be helped. At least all Jane does now, before mounting her own horse, is to pull downwards from the opposite side of the saddle so that it doesn't slide down as Sherlock puts weight on the stirrup and flings himself up. A tight enough girth should stop this at any rate, but Jane is adamant about not taking any chances.

Jane has always instinctively respected his need for silence, for space for his thoughts. They have done lots of balance exercises and stretches on horseback, the patient Hestia never giving a whit about whatever strange gymnastics are performed on her back. But, most of the time Sherlock has spent with her has not been for the benefit of his physique – instead, it has kept his head together by providing an escape and reassuring company in the a calming presence of an animal that doesn't judge him by what he's lost but only by how he treats her.

After a leisurely walk and a short trot across a field – posting still exhausts him in minutes and he dreads the thought of the stairs at 221B – Jane slows into a promenade again. She's riding her own horse which is s not part of the manor's therapy regiment: a young, rust-coloured gelding that had been the accidental love child of a Cleveland Bay and a Dutch Warmblood. 

"Canter?" Jane asks. "Just a short one, mind you. Still less tiring than trot." She has been hesitant at letting him try this for some reason. Perhaps she has merely sensed his own nervousness at stepping out of his still very narrow physical comfort zone.

A moment's hesitation, then a surprising jolt of his old adventurousness. He hasn't felt that in a long time, and it will probably disappear the minute he gets back to London, but it's still a good feeling to experience instead of the overly cautious apprehension he's been locked in after the GBS. Riding is the only thing he feels he has made any satisfactory improvements in. The physical therapy had been a waste of time and a terrible strain on his patience; unfortunately, Mycroft has already been hounding him about finding someone to take over all that and provide home visits. It won't happen. He's not going through any more of it, especially not in front of John.

His heart hangs heavy when he thinks about home. He got through Harwich but getting through the rest of his life in this state is a much bigger task. All he wants right now is to forget all about it, even if just for a second.

"Canter's fine," he tells Jane firmly.

She nods, turns her horse towards the wider field opening towards the lake south of the manor, and takes the lead.

Sherlock leans slightly forward, gives Hestia an extra inch of reins so that she can stretch her neck enough to manage the more physically strenuous gait. He presses his ankles to her flanks, left leg shifted slightly forward. The black mare knows what he wants and coils like a spring, gathering its strength.

After a few preparatory steps, she leaps into a gallop.

 

– The End –

 

  
  



End file.
